The Angel in the Night
by The Sith Virtuoso
Summary: The artist meets his muse, and they make beautiful music together. A four part prequel set in the same continuity as my other Jhin pieces, "Beauty" and "Opening Night". Jhin x Syndra. Rated M for explicit sexual content and violence. Please enjoy and reviews are very much appreciated! I own only the story and the cover art.
1. Act I

**All characters property of Riot Games. Shoutout to crazylantern for making me conceptualize the idea that eventually led to this piece ^^**

 **Please enjoy and reviews are very much appreciated. - SV**

* * *

 **THE ANGEL IN THE NIGHT**

 _I will make you beautiful...I will make you perfect..._

* * *

 **Act I**

It was a perfect full moon that night, illuminating everything underneath its cosmic face in silver light.

Among those was a small, but beautifully crafted amphitheatre found in the Ionian section of the Institute of War, its white marble glittering magnificently while fireflies flit in and out of the carefully maintained garden that covered a greater part of its expanse.

A lone figure sat on one of the white stone pedestals, not noticing the sublime beauty that nature had decided to show.

 _Where is he?_ Syndra thought impatiently, glancing at a hextech clock that hung over the entrance.

It was half-an-hour to midnight.

 _He should have been here an hour ago!_

But she was not angry.

Not really.

Anxious more like, for she had butterflies in her stomach and a pounding drum in her chest.

She thought she was prepared for this meeting, in mind, heart and spirit.

 _Why am I feeling this way? Why am I even bothering to wait for him?_

She _did_ ask him to meet with her later that night—a brazen idea that she currently half regretted.

But she _had to_.

She had power and she had plans.

Her power was unquestionable and _alone_ it might even suffice.

But power balanced with plans...would all but assure victory in every sense.

Plans needed collaboration though, and despite Syndra's haughty reluctance to make allies, she knew that she needed all the help she can get to make her ambition a reality.

She had since met a few, though none quite as memorable or as...enticing as _he was._

It was his first match earlier that day, and she was part of the opposing team.

She had thought none of the new champion despite being her countryman and an infamous assassin to boot.

 _The Golden Demon? Cannon fodder..._ she remembered thinking as that match started.

But he had proven himself in the battle that followed, and ended up eating those words.

He was not just a _capable_ fighter...such would be understatement to the magnificent skill he had shown...

His team's eventual victory was all but secured with the trigger of his smoking gun.

It was also a defeat so complete that Syndra was still in disbelief.

She had ended up watching his next few matches in ill-concealed awe and saw him pull off a winning streak unheard of in recent memory.

After his last match at sundown, she had asked if he would grace her with an audience, and set upon an agreed time.

* * *

She couldn't take it anymore, but she just _felt_ that she couldn't leave here without speaking to him, even if just for a moment. To placate herself, the Dark Sovereign proceeded to pace back and forth the grand marble amphitheatre.

Minutes passed by, feeling like an eternity to Syndra, when a rustling of the undergrowth caught her ear.

Her gaze snapped back to the entrance...and there he was.

The tall, lean figure walked with graceful strides, as if floating, and was garbed in regal white, purple and gold which glinted in the moonlight.

His mask, pale and bright as the moon above, added to his ethereal beauty.

Syndra was not known for her sentimentality, but she couldn't help but feel her heart flutter even more at the sight as he strode toward her.

She was transfixed at the vision before her.

She then felt a warm, masculine hand, roughened by callouses take her own with surprising tenderness.

Her eyes moved down to where her hand was, and she beheld him raise his mask slightly to lay a small kiss on her hand.

It was something the Dark Sovereign had never experienced before; potential underlings usually cowered or bowed on their knees.

But a kiss on the hand?

It would have been unthinkable; laughable even, had someone suggested it to her earlier that day.

But it happened anyway, and proved how wrong she was.

One thing was crystal clear to her though.

She liked it.

* * *

"You're late", she said with the merest hint of a whimper as his lips left her slender hand.

Jhin smirked behind the ivory mask, "I apologize, my lady. But art...needs its own time."

His grip on her hand was tender, but he felt enough to know she reciprocated the gesture.

Sure enough, when he let go shortly after his kiss, he felt her palm grow tighter for an infinitesimal moment.

 _Interesting..._

He drew himself up to his full height, a few inches taller than she was and purposefully looked into her eyes.

 _Lovely_ , admiring the soft glowing shade of purple they were.

Her tone was impatient, but her melodic iron tones felt like music to his ears.

"And what _art_ would this be?"

"Look around you," Jhin whispered, brandishing an elegant wave towards the moon, the marble, the garden and the fireflies, "'tis all around you."

She raised an eyebrow, "I was never one for art, if you must know."

He felt a stab of pain in his heart from that remark.

 _Ah...I will have to work on_ that _, darling._

"Have I...displeased you?" he said apologetically.

He watched her perform a small gulp, and cocked a knowing eyebrow beneath his mask.

Despite the regal way she carried herself, despite the fact that she was practically an all-powerful goddess, she was nervous.

Nervous of a mere mortal.

 _Very interesting indeed._

"No...this is our first meeting anyway," Syndra breathed, "I will not be so...open-handed the next time."

"Of course," he gestured graciously toward two stone chairs on opposite sides of a table carved from the same, "shall we sit?"

A small smile projected from the Dark Sovereign's luscious lips as she wordlessly sat down his opposite.

He had his _own_ plans that were known to none except himself.

She was not a significant player in his grand scheme when he had first drawn its script...

 _You were just another actress, darling...another puppet to grace my stage..._

But she had all but shown to him that she was not interested only in a _purely_ professional relationship.

 _But now you are showing me your true talent...oh yes...show me more..._

Her part had to be changed.

Hers needed more _zazz_.

Hers needed more _magnificence_.

 _I do believe a rewrite is in order..._ his smile growing under his mask, admiring her silver-blonde locks glittering in the moonlight.

It was an _exciting_ prospect.

She started to speak to him of her plans for domination but all he could think of was where all this could potentially lead.

He _was_ certain of one thing.

He liked it.


	2. Act II

**Act II**

It was over within half an hour.

The dark woman turned in her bed and noticed he had already fallen asleep beside her.

It was a cold night, and Syndra pulled up the tousled blanket to cover her modesty.

She tried to will herself to sleep; she thought that a bout of vigorous, late-night lovemaking after a long day of back-to-back battles on the Fields of Justice would have tired her out.

For some reason, that was not to be.

She could say she was definitely pleased, but there was just something off. There had always been something off.

 _Something..._

Her eyes skimmed her lover, but found only his scarred, muscled back to her.

She sighed.

It wasn't as if Zed was unskilled in bed; and their first few times were certainly to her liking.

Rough.

Primal.

But there was something lacking...akin to recalling a dream she never had. 'Twas a thought that Syndra had only realized after those first few trysts.

As the old saying went, "the hearth is alive, but the embers are dying".

Syndra closed her eyes and her yearning for more led her mind's eye to see a smiling ivory white mask.

Her heart skipped a beat, and Syndra whispered, "Why?" to herself.

There was something about the Virtuoso that just made her heart flutter.

She fantasized how he moved in battle, how he carried himself during their meetings.

He was flamboyant where Zed was straightforward.

Gracious where Zed was taciturn.

 _And he has such passion..._

Passion.

She couldn't truly understand his passion—if not obsession—for art and beauty.

But oh did she find it interesting, if not downright endearing much to her surprise.

He found beauty in everything, and during their meetings he had at times drifted off to admire some object in their vicinity which held that ideal for him.

A flower, some insect, a cloud in the sky, and even dry leaves in the wind to name a few.

Somehow he found some esoteric aesthetic to them that he found irresistible to admire.

She should have gotten angry during those times—maybe even cut him off completely despite his sound and strategic contributions to her future plans because of those whimsical episodes.

But she couldn't and understood well enough that she _wouldn't_.

His passion was nothing if not infectious, and even _she_ who had deemed such curiosities below her had started to appreciate art and other things which he had termed as "perfection in plain sight".

It awoke something in her.

 _He_ had awoken something in her.

It was power she craved for.

Syndra moved and thought as if already dreaming... what kind of lover _he_ would be...would he be as passionate? Would he be as impressive? Would he give her what she _wanted_?

Would he be able to give her... _everything_?

The embers of her desire suddenly found new life, roaring with a vengeance, scorching her very soul.

Eyes still closed, her slender hands slowly went down to the burning, aching blossom between her legs...

 _Oh...gods..._

* * *

 _One. Two. Three. Four._

The artist sat down beside a handcrafted table, busy polishing his latest set of crafts.

 _One. Two. Three. Four._

He thanked whatever god was out there for the moon.

 _One. Two. Three. Four._

It was the only light he used that night, and its silver rays bathed his works, adding to the beauty they already possessed.

The contrast was indeed impressive—his unlit quarters and the shining ivory shells he had crafted for tomorrow—art that shall beget art.

 _One. Two. Three. Four._

He focused his gaze at the shell he was holding at the moment.

 _Each bullet is a piece of my soul..._ he reflected, admiring its luminescent countenance.

Like every other one of his weapons, he crafted it with his own hands.

 _Each shot...is a piece of me._

He wiped his tears away with his other hand.

It was getting late, and there were battles to be fought on the morrow.

He took his time arranging his rounds and laying a caress on his beloved Whisper.

He had to sigh as he beheld her ivory and bronze countenance.

Most individuals would have thought his level of attachment to the handcrafted firearm as psychotic.

 _The only madness I am guilty of...is love._

He loved Whisper not as a companion.

She was less his instrument than she was a part of him—the part which allowed him to grace Runeterra with his art.

With Whisper, he was a sculptor, a painter, a composer, a singer, an instrumentalist, a playwright, a director, an actor...

He is all this and more.

 _It is only when she fires...that I am alive..._

He shuddered in pleasure, still loving the feel of the meticulously crafted ivory and bronze sidearm on his skin.

As of late, he and Whisper had been producing handcrafted masterpieces day-in and day-out in the Fields of Justice.

His only regret was that they were never permanent.

Doomed to vanish as soon as his puppets respawned.

 _Oh...but that may soon change..._

His dealings with Syndra had been fuelling more ideas to his _magnum opus._...and he himself had been enjoying her company.

It was not as if he was not attracted to women, for he most certainly had those desires.

 _I am not only an artist. I_ am _a lover._

 _Love...that which transcends all things._

 _Love...the greatest madness of all._

It was his love for beauty that led him to take lives— death is the purest, most _perfect_ expression of love.

Absolute.

Unchanging.

Eternal.

But such a thing needs a prelude...one scene must lead to another...to its inevitable, glorious climax, even if it must take some time.

His thoughts then went to his newfound...ally.

He understood that Syndra wanted him for more than just a comrade-at-arms.

It was something of true intrigue to him.

 _Ah...a chance to test my other talents?_

He could act the part to the letter, and so far he had found his performance _magnífique._

The artist had grown to admire her somewhat...but did he _love_ the Dark Sovereign?

He set Whisper down on her handcrafted golden stand and stood in silent contemplation.

The artist reflected on the emotions he had felt during their meetings despite himself and Syndra's own unwitting attempts to convince him otherwise.

He reflected on the carnal desires he felt whenever he laid his eyes on her lithe, sultry form.

A burst of clarity hit him, clearer and purer than the first chord of light that had birthed the symphony that was the multiverse.

 _The only madness I_ truly _am guilty of...is love._

He would not fake his love.

He would genuinely _love_ her.

 _Please_ her.

Make her _his_ in every way possible.

 _Syndra..._

She was nearly perfect...nearly.

 _Light of my life..._

His very being had become possessed with the visions of his new muse.

 _Fire of my loins..._

His heart blossomed.

 _My sin...my soul..._

His mind was clear as a crystal bell.

 _Syndra..._

Only the best. Only _perfection_ did she deserve. That much he swore.

 _You...shall be_ perfect _._


	3. Act III

**Act III**

Two months had passed since their first meeting under that moonlit sky, and with it the seasons had changed as well.

Rain began falling more often than not.

And so Syndra found herself fighting in the Fields of Justice one late afternoon drenched in a torrential downpour.

It was not that big a personal handicap; she kept herself dry through force of will.

It did make a difference in the battlefield however for the heavy rain hindered her sight and the electricity in the atmosphere interfered with her extrasensory perception.

Worse, some of the other champions not only benefited from such weather, but were at home in it.

Dark spheres at the ready, she felt a presence in her immediate vicinity.

The Dark Sovereign got her guard up; she could not afford to be careless at that point in battle—amongst her allies she so far was the one who provided the greatest pressure to the enemy—and thus was the prime target for elimination.

The presence shifted its position suddenly, and by reflex, Syndra launched her spheres into its projected direction.

A startled half-snarl met her ears—her attack had met their mark.

She immediately rushed toward her injured quarry, arcane energy crackling about her to shame the stormy sky above, ready to finish what she had started.

Rengar lay under her hungry gaze, burned and battered from her initial assault.

 _Let us make this quick, savage._

Telekinetically seizing the Pridestalker, she jerked him back into her direction, and followed up by effortlessly raising him high into the stormy sky and then slamming him with finality onto the muddy ground.

Rengar groaned, bloodied and broken in a crater of steaming mud.

She could not help but gloat as she readied herself for the killing blow.

"Any last words?"

The one-eyed hunter unexpectedly chuckled through a mask of blood.

"Fool."

Before she could even comprehend his meaning, a phantasmal chain and sickle had shot out with blinding speed from the darkness, and Syndra shouted in agony as it dug into the flesh of her right leg.

A monstrous force of will possessed her, corrupting her senses and denying her the power to escape from a cackling Chain Warden.

To add to her torment, the maddeningly elusive yordle scout, Teemo, began riddling her flesh with poison darts.

She was going to die now, she thought irritably, and her team would have a severe setback.

The monstrous spectre named Thresh kept her bound in his ghostly chains as Teemo instantaneously healed Rengar with a salve.

 _Damn you all!_ She would have said, but the skull-faced Chain Warden's magic was too strong even for her in her bound state.

Rengar's leonine face twisted into a fanged, bloody smile, blades at the ready.

"Any last words?" he taunted in reversal.

 _I'll take you to the hells with me,_ she would have said if she could.

The Pridestalker motioned for the killing blow when a seemingly innocuous cartridge flew from the thick jungle.

The hextech cartridge caused minor explosions when it rebounded on the three enemy champions who had cornered Syndra.

It was not nearly enough to kill them but enough to alert them to an attacking enemy.

They did not realize that it was already too late.

* * *

By the time the bouncing cartridge had done its work, four shots—four notes to the staff—were already fired by their unseen assailant.

The first ripped out a song of blood from Rengar's thigh, crippling him a second time.

The second note caught Thresh's side, its dissonance forcing the ghastly warrior to slacken his chains.

The third, a proud forte, sent the one-yordle audience that was Teemo scampering into the bush.

The Chain Warden hurled his lantern into the direction where the Swift Scout had ran off, knowing that they were caught in a trap.

"You fool! Get to the lantern, NOW!" Thresh bellowed at the fleeing yordle.

Realizing he was in the open, Teemo attempted to dash for the lantern when the fourth shot came, perfect and unforgiving, blowing the Swift Scout apart to applause made of blood and shrapnel.

* * *

 _I like the way you die_ , _boy,_ he thought when he saw Whisper's fourth bullet compose another song.

The artist would have admired his work, but he had a teammate to save.

 _And not just any teammate..._

The clock was ticking and the play was still on, its refrain marked by a lotus trap being thrown at the injured Pridestalker.

Rengar attempted to toss it away when a round fired from Whisper's cane attachment immobilized him.

The trap detonated in Rengar's hand, instantly killing him, sending dissonant shards of rain and blood drenched shrapnel at the already injured Chain Warden.

Thresh knew he was quite literally outgunned and attempted to flee with his prize into the rain-soaked jungle.

 _Yes! Dance for me...Dance!_

* * *

Jhin's breath grew heavy with excitement as he assembled Whisper into configuration for the curtain call, his vision and range unimpeded by the heavy rain.

 _And now Thresh...your curtain rises._

One.

 _Prepare for your finale._

Two.

 _You will be **beautiful**..._

Three.

 _You will be **perfect**!_

Four.

Each and every one of the hextech accelerator powered shots met their mark, shredding the monstrous spectre's corporeal form.

The fourth dealt the finishing blow and the artist watched with pride as he saw flowers blooming and heard an aria being sung from his latest piece.

 _Perfection!_

He immediately ran to aid his comrade and was pleased to see that she had taken the initiative to heal herself after being freed of Thresh's chains.

"What took you so long?" Syndra asked.

She was smiling though, and he knew that this was her way of showing gratitude.

"I _always_ execute with style, darling" the masked assassin chuckled, "and that old bag of bones can take a hit."

He offered a hand enveloped by a golden gauntlet to help her up from the muddy ground.

"Let us make this a performance to remember shall we?"

She took his hand, biting her lip as she did, and his hidden smile grew when he heard her breath hitch when his skin touched hers.

 _Oh, how you make my heart sing..._

* * *

The resounding victory their team had won had raised both of their spirits that evening.

It was no surprise then when Syndra had requested that they meet again later that evening to further perfect their schemes for domination, and—as she had coyly hinted before retiring to their quarters — _actually_ celebrate their collaboration.

Since the stormy weather had refused to abate even after the authorities had attempted to rein it, the amphitheatre made a poor choice for their meeting that night.

It had been a pleasant surprise for Jhin when Syndra decided that they will meet in _her_ quarters.

There was no missing the note of conflicting apprehension & excitement in her voice, however small it was.

He knew what it meant, and it pleased him.

It pleased him indeed to know that Syndra, for all her attempts at hiding her desire for him, was failing as always.

He had no intention of letting her failure be corrected.

Not now, not ever.

The Virtuoso knew that there would come a time when he had to tip the balance irrevocably in his favour.

 _Tonight perhaps?_

* * *

He had dressed in a somewhat different fashion that evening.

 _We shall see._

An artist _and_ a gentleman, he made always made sure that he cut a dashing sight.

He was meeting his lady after all.

He had dispensed of the black eelsuit and golden greaves he so opted in the field for a near-diaphanous white Ionian poet shirt coupled with black gold-trimmed dress pants and high heeled dress boots of the finest Freljordian leather.

In place of his white and gold field cape, he had worn a billowing floor length cape the color of fresh blood, swept off to one shoulder and loosely fastened at the level of his neck with a gold chain and lotus shaped brooch he had forged a few months before.

One aspect of his look remained constant—the meticulously carved, smiling, ivory-colored visage which had since become infamous in the Fields of Justice.

 _Which is the lie?_ he would sometimes ask himself, _the mask or my face?_

Yet he could not part with the mask, try as he might.

For him, it _was_ his real face.

The face of _the_ artist.

The face that Syndra was helplessly, hopelessly in love with.

He then fantasized at what Syndra might have decided to wear.

She had always gone on their meetings in some variation of her usual battle outfit.

 _Not that I am complaining._

Striding confidently towards his destination, the Virtuoso could not help but feel that this was to be an evening to remember.


	4. Act IV

**Author's Note: Forgive me if the length of this chapter seems ungainly, regardless, I hope I was able to deliver the *ahem* "goods".**

 **Please review and enjoy! - SV**

* * *

 **Act IV**

Syndra awoke with a gasp.

She had fallen asleep unwittingly in her tub which was still filled with steamy bathwater.

A nearby wall-clock told her she was half an hour late for her meeting with Jhin.

Though she knew that he was a patient man, she had known him long enough to realize he could be mercurial at times.

She was not going to take any chances.

She had every intention of perfecting her plans even more tonight.

Our _plans..._ she corrected herself.

In private, she no longer considered dominion over Runeterra alone—she wanted him by her side—though she never had admitted it out loud.

Immediately, she got out of the tub and proceeded to dry her body with a towel.

It was then that she heard a familiar melody coming from beyond the door of her expansive and luxurious bathroom.

* * *

She stepped out into the candlelit room with only a diaphanous silk nightgown to protect her modesty.

She saw him sitting in one of her couches, effortlessly playing an ebony-colored stringed instrument.

It was an Ionian moon lyre; specifically, it was one of centuries-old, handcrafted twin lyres which were hers by right of conquest.

She would have asked why he hadn't asked her permission but his hauntingly perfect rendition of the well known Ionian song was beyond anything she had ever heard.

He seemed oblivious to her presence, so absorbed by the beautiful music that he was effortlessly creating, his hands weaving forth a flawless glissando across the instrument's' gleaming strings.

The Dark Sovereign never paid any heed to artists before him.

She had always found them a fickle lot.

Oh the irony now of how helpless _she_ was now under his spell.

Not that she resisted. She probably couldn't anyway.

She closed her eyes and danced to _his_ music.

For a time there was nothing else in the universe except for her and the ethereal magic he was working with his hands.

 _His_ music played with the strings of her heart, making her body move in harmony with it...and emotions surged in her like the thunder outside...

Desire.

Longing.

Lust.

Love.

And then the music stopped.

"I'd never have guessed you to be such a graceful dancer," his voice teased, popping her out of her bacchanalian reverie.

He gave no hint of displeasure at all at the delay of their meeting, so she allowed herself a small smile, welcoming her guest.

"I am learned in the classical arts too, Jhin. My old mentors taught me as much."

"Yet you say you are not one for the arts? I beg that you reconsider...your talent would be wasted. "

Syndra blushed.

"Your passion is contagious, I have to admit," she teased, "You could take credit in opening new horizons for me."

"I shall count that as a personal triumph," offering a gracious bow to her after settling the lyre down on the couch, "Should I consider that an apology for...the last time I had displeased you as well?"

She pouted in shame, "Let us put that behind us shall we? I wish tonight to be a happy occasion."

She hadn't forgotten how she had near strangled him during their previous meeting.

It had been a bad day with defeat after defeat, and then he decided to come hours late.

Even as she pinned him with her sheer will on the marble facade of the amphitheatre that day, not once did he show any sign of fear.

 _"If I have displeased you, my lady...take my life. I have pledged it to you. Do with me as you will."_

He said those in perfect calm while helpless physically, not knowing perhaps how his words had rendered her helpless in spirit.

She only admired him even more afterward for his brazenness and sheer lack of fear.

She shook herself out of the bitter memory as he started to speak again.

"That piece...you are familiar with it, Lady Syndra?"

"Yes... _The Angel in the Night,"_ Syndra breathed.

The masked artist chuckled, "I thought it was appropriate for tonight."

He sat motionless with only his gaze following her while she moved toward him slowly with the ebony lyre's mother-of-pearl twin.

"I've...been attempting to learn it as of late," she admitted with some difficulty, "I am nowhere near as good as you though, Jhin."

The room was silent despite the stormy night, a rest in an otherwise vigorous production, when she slowly, but surely grasped one of his hands in supplication.

"Would you teach me?" she asked, thoughts of other plans for the night cast away to the depths of her mind.

He unfastened his extravagant red cape and let it fall softly onto the floor and took the ebony moon lyre again in his free hand.

Syndra's heart skipped a few beats as her eyes consumed her would-be mentor's lean form.

No sooner had she sat down on a bench opposite him did she feel her hand raised and gently kissed.

"I would be honoured."

* * *

 _Such a wonderful student,_ the artist thought fondly.

Only two hours had passed since the dark woman had asked for _his_ instruction and she had gotten the basics of the piece right.

The storm had calmed somewhat by then, allowing them to truly appreciate the music they made.

A few more sessions, he believed, and she would be playing the whole, beautiful piece in no time.

"Bravo," he said, settling down the ebony lyre for a moment's rest, "Bravo, my dear."

She gave a genuine smile that made her purple eyes sparkle.

"Thank you," performing an uncharacteristic curtsy that elicited a small laugh from the masked man.

"Might I ask a small favour then?" he asked graciously, "Do you know the words?"

Syndra flushed, "I...I do."

"Might I ask you to sing them as we play?"

"I...I don't believe I can sing..." she confessed, "it has been years."

"Allow me to be the judge," he whispered.

As he did, the Virtuoso reached out a tenderly to stroke her face. It was something he had never done before and he could not know for sure how she would react.

The thought of the unknown excited him.

When she closed her eyes and leaned toward his touch, he knew, and it pleased him to no end.

 _You are mine._

"Sing for _me_ , Syndra," he whispered to her, his hazel eye tracing the flawless features of her face, "sing for me, _my_ angel."

He began to play the ebony lyre and she followed suit on its twin.

Soon after the introduction came the verse, and he heard a seraphic soprano, branded with naked emotion, as she fulfilled his wish.

 ** _'The evening calls, the evenfall_**

 ** _The moon, the stars they shine!_**

 ** _Winds will blow, shadows fall_**

 ** _The day we know shall die_**

 ** _Fear not the dark, no more the light_**

 ** _Watching you..._**

 ** _The Angel in the Night'_**

His heart pounded in exultation of her talent.

 _How lovely! Bellissimo!_

 ** _'Let the night possess you_**

 ** _Let it come caress you_**

 ** _Come dance under the stars, under the sky_**

 ** _Touch your soul, let it take flight_**

 ** _Fear not, fear not_**

 ** _I see you..._**

 ** _The Angel in the Night'_**

Raw emotion seizing him, Jhin decided to make the next move as the song went on.

 _Sing for me!_

* * *

She soon heard his voice join her for a duet, and what a voice he had.

Hauntingly beautiful, just like the rest of him, and somehow it lent Syndra even more strength and confidence to finish the song.

Their song.

 ** _'Angel in the Night, come to me_**

 ** _Set my heart, my spirit free_**

 ** _Sing to me, Angel in the Night_**

 ** _Light up my heart and let dreams take flight'_**

After the verse was a small instrument-only interlude which Jhin had taught her to play.

Her purple eyes were closed as she let her feelings play the lyre through her fingers.

And then he sang the next verse by himself in that ethereal tenor which had all but made her breathless.

 ** _'Give in to your desire_**

 ** _For none see through the night_**

 ** _Fall through the endless dark_**

 **I _will be there to catch you'_**

He had altered the lyrics subtly, replacing 'the angel' with 'I'; she then felt him sit behind her on her bench as they both reached the crescendo of the piece.

 ** _'Surrender your fears_**

 ** _Faith, love, please hear_**

She gasped in raw pleasure when she felt his hands slowly moving towards hers, his arms embracing her.

 ** _'A promise, full, not hollow_**

 ** _If only you would but follow'_**

She felt herself grow faint with ecstasy when intertwined his fingers between hers, guiding them to produce notes that seized the heart and pierced the soul.

Her heart beat a vigorous staccato from within as the Virtuoso sang the last verses softly in her ear.

 **I _will be there to catch you_**

 **Your _Angel in the Night'_**

Upon finishing the last note as one, Syndra opened her eyes.

She beheld the eye behind the ivory mask burning with unbridled desire.

If it was his intention to make her his, then she was more than happy to oblige.

"Jhin..." Syndra whimpered.

He gently placed his finger on her full lips, his fiery gaze all but promising her the forbidden fruit which she had long yearned for.

"I know."

* * *

She felt his strong hand stroking her face, tracing its contours as if brushstrokes of a master painter.

She felt his thumb trace her lip and his other hand pull her into a tight embrace.

She responded in kind by letting her hands travel over his back and then on his face where she attempted with shaking hands to take his mask off.

"No," a soft but stern whisper told her, " _no."_

"I want to see your face," Syndra pleaded.

"This _is_ my face, darling," he replied breathlessly, taking her hands off his face and pressing them softly together between his own.

"I am no one without this mask. Allow me this small indulgence, my lady," he pleaded gently, locking his hazel eye into the gaze of her purple ones.

 _Yes...anything..._ but she had already given in to his request.

For the first time in her life, Syndra felt helpless, and deep inside knew that her masked lover understood.

Lightning flashed from outside, and she was drawn into a kiss whose passion nearly caused her to faint.

His heart was hammering with fiery vigor, and Syndra wanted nothing more than to melt into his arms at that very moment.

Before she could make sense of all that she was feeling, the masked artist ramped up the passion, his hands deliciously teasing away her nearly nonexistent nightgown which was by then soaked in sweat.

 _Oh gods..._

* * *

The Virtuoso was no stranger to the dance of the bedroom; indeed he had lain with many a beautiful woman who had caught his fancy.

And yet...when he saw Syndra naked as the day she was born did he see an example of _perfection_ outside his chosen artform.

 _Behold...the goddess laid bare._

The artist then knew that a new piece of unrivalled beauty was about to birthed.

Unable to resist any longer, he slowly rubbed his fingers on her luscious breasts, twisting the hard wanting nipples, an aria of lust escaping her.

 _Breathe in the atmosphere, my love..._

His lips became his instrument and thus, he planted a trail of pleasures that ended in one breast and proceeded to suckle on it like a man dying of thirst.

 _I shall make your heart dance..._

Syndra's body was his staff...her moans his notes...her frenzied motions his tempo...ready to be molded into perfection by the hands and desire of the Virtuoso.

 _I shall make your soul sing..._

His own desire was fast consuming him, threatening to reach the same levels as Syndra's own...

But this was only the overture of _their_ opera, and there was so much more beauty to be created.

* * *

If there was a heaven, Syndra surely thought that she was already there.

Jhin's lips, tongue and hands were sending deluges of pleasure throughout her entire being.

His touch, his very presence was electric—his fingers would go up and down her body in a frenzied glissando while his lips played passages across her lips and skin that plucked and strummed the fire in every particle of her being.

Her body no longer seemed to be hers as it continued to perform in response to his artistry.

He then paused — a _fermata_ to an otherwise furious but fluid performance— and picked her up from the bench as if she were a child.

"Shall we take this passion to your bed, my dear?" the masked composer teased.

Locking her legs over his waist and grasping his shoulders, she replied breathlessly in the affirmative, eager beyond words to remain part of the beautiful music he was effortlessly creating.

His lips, his fingers...the instruments that dictated the thrum and hum of the artist's passion once again struck chords against her own lips and birthed from his muse an étude of ecstasy.

Soon enough she felt it...brushing against her thigh and straining to be free of its prison was the greatest instrument in his repertoire, ready to join the orchestra.

 _I want that...oh yes...I want all of it...all of him!_

She allowed him to deposit her gently on her expansive bed and she couldn't help but touch herself in interlude while he proceeded to remove the last layers of clothing which hid what she desired more than anything else at the moment in Runeterra.

He climbed atop the bed, the stage where their opera was to be set, and she marvelled at his instrument's length and girth and readied herself for him.

She was breathing heavily while he gently teased her thighs apart to reveal her slit, all but an overflowing ocean of lust by then...all but begging to add its voice to the choir.

"Jhin..." she gasped desperately.

The masked artist slowly, but firmly grasped both her hands to hold them up behind her head, eliciting an incoherent cry of lust from his woman, before teasing her aching blossom with his own wanting cock.

Desire was but an essential part of this piece...and he shifted its tempo from its current vivacé to a slower but no less expressive adagio wherein he slid his length slowly up and down the outside of her hot, overflowing flower like a bow across its violin.

Each time he did, she would moan and she would writhe, bucking her hips toward him, enticing him to finish his opening act.

But _he_ was the consummate artist; the composer of this piece. It would be his genius and decision, _a piac_ é _re,_ that would conduct their glorious opera.

" _We_ shall be... _perfect_ ," the Virtuoso growled seductively.

It was clear to her then that she was the powerless one at the moment, and he was going to take his time to break her and make her desire sing to him in inspired fortissimo.

And as he teased, so did she break.

The muse climaxed many a time; high notes punctuating a steady, vigorous score that was still nowhere near it _own_ climax, the centrefold of the entire performance.

Just when she thought that she would explode from the pleasure wrought by _his_ song, did he finally thrust his sceptre of passion into her being.

He entered her—the artist and his art becoming one and the same—her walls clamping down on his fiery spear of lust as it wrung a melody _a sforzando_ from her throat.

 _Such power...oh gods!_

The virtuoso's ministrations were measured and yet passionate; striking a perfect legato that weaved together speed and strength, keeping the muse red-hot yet allowing her still to savor every note dictated by every thrust.

His lips, his hips and his manhood combined in rapturous concert, and she could scarce believe with what little wits she had left that he had exceeded expectations beyond her wildest dreams.

 _My wonderful man_...

This man made her body, soul and heart rejoice as no man had ever done...

 _My beautiful lover..._

She was helpless—a slave to _his_ music—the escalating throes of forbidden pleasure bringing her closer and closer to the inevitable crescendo.

 _My dearest love..._

The inferno in her loins exploded, and every particle of her being was set ablaze by the music of their passion.

 _My Angel in the Night..._

* * *

She was already asleep when the rains began to grow strong again.

It was already early morning, and he watched her chest rise in a _lento_ rhythm while they lay beside one another.

There was a thunderclap, and she turned unconsciously to rest her head on his shoulder and lay an arm over his pectorals.

The smile beneath the mask grew as he admired his beautiful, spent lover.

Only one more detail would make _this_ performance perfect.

He turned his head over to the bedside table where Whisper sat forgotten in their passion.

She was less a performer than she was the medium—and so Whisper was soon aimed, loaded and ready to birth another masterpiece.

He breathed in heavy.

He breathed in deep.

He had not intended for their passion to be the end, not even the climax of their opera...

 _So close..._

The artist cocked his finger on her trigger, and _Whisper_ was all but ready to deliver the last _tessitura_ passage that would mark the true crescendo of their opus.

 _So close..._

One pull.

 _So close..._

One shot.

 _So close..._ _  
_  
That was all it would take...

And then...a stroke of genius occurred to him, and he set Whisper gently aside.

Syndra cannot die now.

Not when things were not yet... _perfect_.

 _Rest well, dear. You still have so much to do..._ I _still have so much do._

This was only the beginning.

 _We still have so many scenes together..._

He loved her.

 _What music we shall make!_

With all his heart he did.

 _The only madness I am guilty of...is love._

And he remembered his promise to one day give her the end she deserved.

A production _worthy_ of the love they shared. Of the love he had given to her.

Of the love _she_ had given to him.

 _My muse..._

It would be one that Runeterra would speak of until the end of time.

 _My goddess..._

Until the time his masterpiece takes flight though, that can wait.

 _My immaculate whore..._

She was all that mattered at the moment.

 _My dearest love..._

He gave her a small kiss on her forehead before retiring, the fatigue of their duet finally making itself felt.

 _My Angel in the Night..._


End file.
